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When I was a girl, my dad always tried to teach me about cars.  He pointed to what this thing was and he explained how it worked.   And I remember none of what he tried to teach me.  I remember looking at his tan, scarred hands, that grime under the nails that would never come out.  I can close my eyes and smell the mix of diesel fuel and cigarette smoke. That was the smell of my dad after a long honest day's work in the shop.  The literal blue collar with his name stitched across his chest.

All our posts this week from Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook, right here for you.  Our...

Of all of the adventures anticipated I never expected to be photobombed by bears and eagles in Juneau, Alaska.

Convincing my teenage daughter to hike Pinnacle Peak Mountain turned out to be more than family travel, it was a mother-daughter moment that brought us together.

If you had told me ten years ago that M & I would be...